


a prima vista

by spidermanhomecomeme



Series: poco a poco cresc. [1]
Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Cheesy, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Humor, Idiots in Love, Music Major AU, Peter Parker is a Little Shit, Slow Burn, music jokes, so many
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:46:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22295779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spidermanhomecomeme/pseuds/spidermanhomecomeme
Summary: Things a practice room is for: Practicing, and on occasion, crying.Things a practice room is not for: Loitering, sitting on your ass.
Relationships: Michelle Jones/Peter Parker
Series: poco a poco cresc. [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1604887
Comments: 19
Kudos: 79





	a prima vista

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone!! This is a little series that I've been planning for a while now (i originally had it planned for Spideychelle Month OOPS) and have been so excited to share! I'll release the other parts in this little universe over time as I get inspiration, so apologies in advance for this one taking some time. 
> 
> I did music for my undergrad and this basically is turning into G rants about being a music major, so please enjoy lmao

_**a prima vista** \- at first sight; to perform a piece of music while reading it for the first time, without rehearsal_

Michelle hardly knows what to do with herself; she holds her worn music binder to her chest as she stands, at first, confused.

Then, a split second later, angry.

The absolute audacity this punk has.

His eyes are glued to his phone as he just fucking _sits_ there, body hunched over the keys of the restored Steinway as he scrolls aimlessly through something that’s definitely not related to music, trombone long forgotten in the wide-open case in the corner of the cramped room. Every once in a while, his finger absentmindedly taps one of the upper keys of the piano, sometimes alternating between a major and minor second higher. 

The wailing of a coloratura soprano next door falls on deaf ears, completely tuned out, and he effectively ignores the ever-so-slightly out of tune alto sax crooning out some jazz melody.

Michelle can only watch; she seethes silently at him through the glass door.

He doesn’t notice her, of course.

In a single moment of bravery, she marches up to the door, ready to (politely) tell him off, but immediately stops just as she reaches it, her hand hovering millimeters from the handle. 

She steps away.

He’s just sitting in what was—in her humble opinion—the best damn practice room in the whole building. Room 2111. The one with the almost always perfectly in tune piano. The one where you can hide behind one of the walls if you don’t want anyone to watch you. The one that doesn’t get quite as gross and humid as all the others. 

That one.

_The_ one.

And he’s just _sitting there._ Doing _absolutely jack shit._

Wasting this perfectly good room.

See, at this point, juries were less than two weeks away, meaning practically every room was already taken.

Funnily enough, by people who were actually practicing, too.

C.P. E. Bach’s _Solfeggietto_ isn’t gonna memorize itself.

It’s called a _practice room_ for a _reason_.

If you aren’t gonna use it for that, then get _out_.

His shoulders rise and fall with a heavy sigh as he looks forlornly at the discarded instrument on the ground before resting his gaze on the lonely music stand, lingering for a moment. And it’s then that she thinks he’s going to finally stop dicking around.

But he goes back to his phone, arm curling around his stomach as he sinks. 

She’s had enough. 

Three sharp, staccato raps on the door have him nearly leaping out of his skin, his phone clattering on the floor. He turns, brows raised, eyes wide. For maybe a second, his gaze softens upon seeing her, though his brows crease in slight confusion as he realizes that this he has absolutely no idea who this person is. 

She opens the door, not waiting for an invitation, poking her head into the humid room.

He lets out a breathy chuckle as he offers a smile. “Oh, uh, hi?—”

“I was wondering if you were using this room?” Her tone is precise, nonchalance veiling layers of passive aggression to it as she narrows her eyes at him. It’s frustrating though, that in spite of her seemingly calm and cool demeanor, her stomach feels like it might fall right out of her ass at the sudden confrontation, and she loses a little momentum when their eyes meet.

His gaze flits left and right, brows pinching as his head jerks back slightly, confused as to why she’d ask something like that when he was very clearly _using this room._ “Uh, yeah?”

_Huh._

_Okay._

“Oh, sorry,” she steels herself and gives the half-hearted apology, her hand drumming lightly against her thigh. “I just… saw you sitting, and thought I’d ask if I could use it. For what it’s for. You know.” She shrugs, grip tightening on the music in her hand. “To practice in.”

He seems to have realized that he’s broken one of the biggest unspoken rules of being a music major. His eyes widen immediately. “Oh! Yeah, sorry. I don’t—I don’t mind.” He spits out another dumb apology as he starts to gather his things. “I’m done anyway,” he chuckles nervously.

And for a split-second, she feels the faintest pang of annoying guilt poking at her chest. A moment of weakness all because he looked up at her with big, dumb brown eyes. 

She shakes the brief feeling. Lips pressing into a thin, fleeting smile, she nods. “Cool. Thanks.”

As if sensing her impatience, he hurries out, muttering another quick apology as he shuts the door behind him. 

A sigh of relief escapes her. 

She immediately gets to work, fingers deftly moving up and down the keys as she plays through her scales and arpeggios. And it comes to her then, moments after the nervous boy’s already left.

She’s definitely seen this punk before; in the hallways, outside the performance hall right after orchestra rehearsal, loitering with the other ‘bones more often than not. She’s pretty sure his trombone lesson ends right as her piano lesson starts, always throwing her a thin-lipped smile and a nod as he passes. He’s always with his one friend with the bass, talking about some nerdy shit, or whatever. 

He’s also—to be perfectly clear—not cute.

Literally everyone else and their grandma might think so, but not Michelle.

She could imagine what some might say about him. Something about those dark waves—that, frankly, don’t look like they’re any kind of soft at all—and those deep brown eyes. They’d maybe say his jawline looks like it could cut glass, or some shit like that, but no. 

That’s not something Michelle would ever think—

She curses mentally, shaking her head as she stumbles on _A-flat Major_ of all keys.

Of all the places she’d seen this kid, inside a practice room was not one of them. She’d figured he was one of those students who slacked off all semester, ignoring any and all music, and suddenly had an “oh shit!’ moment when they realized how close finals week actually was. 

And if that were the case, yeah, she felt a little bad for the guy. 

But he’s had all semester to hammer those notes out. 

He had to learn somehow.

And she hoped--as she continued struggling through some of her easier scales, not distracted _at all_ in the slightest--that this wouldn’t become a problem. That she could come to this room in peace without worrying about someone just loitering around in it. 

Luckily, with how big Empire State University was, and perhaps if she planned out her time a little bit better, the likelihood of another run-in with practice-room-hogging-trombone-boy again was very low. 

She could manage that.

Easy peasy.

Fate, or whatever it is that controls the universe, seemed to have other ideas though.

As it turned out, Michelle’s favorite practice room also happened to be brass-boy’s favorite, too, and over the last two weeks of the semester, encounters with this weirdo became more often than she would have ever liked. Without fail, just when she thought she was in the clear to take that beautiful, wonderful room, when no one else seemed to be around to take it from her…

He’s always there, trombone ready, either already practicing or just closing the door on her. 

_Hmph._

There are a few times where she gets there first, though. Times where she beats him, and she has to fight back the smug grin when she sees him walk by the glass door a few times, not-so-subtly peeking in with every pass. 

At first, it all just seemed accidental. 

It couldn’t have been on purpose.

But then again… If he gets there first, he always gives her a quick, seemingly innocent smile—and on one occasion, she could have sworn she saw the punk _wink_ —through the glass.

But on the Wednesday before juries, two days in fact, as she walks behind him in the music building, when he picks up his pace a little noticing her, and when the little shit actually, truly, seriously, breaks into a jog just before the stairs… That’s what confirms every single one of her suspicions. 

They’re sophomores in college. Almost whole ass adults. 

And he’s _racing_ her. 

But, damn it, she wanted that practice room.

She was not about to lose to this cocky brass player. 

Not again. 

She catches him by surprise, her long legs giving her the advantage as she skips two steps each on the staircase. And maybe she plays a little bit dirty by _gently_ nudging past him—ignoring his little “hey!” as she passes—but that particular point doesn’t really matter all that much. 

All that matters is that she plays him at his own game.

She finds herself smiling cheekily at him, out of breath, throwing a single wave as she closes the door in his face. 

And she emerges the victor. 

After that, surprisingly enough, MJ only sees him one other time before winter break begins. It’s as she’s sitting outside the performance hall, waiting for her jury to start, biting at the pad of her right thumb as she clutches her composer binder to her chest. Her mind races with sixteenth notes as she mentally goes over the finger patterns of the Solfegietto. 

The anxiety that radiates throughout the building is palpable. Students spend hours upon hours in practice rooms, or whatever room they can find that isn’t occupied--twice this week, she’s heard a flautist playing in the bathroom. It’s at this point in the semester that things really start to feel like an overexcited snare drum, one that only goes faster and faster, ignoring all signs from any conductor. 

“Hey.” He slows to a stop near her, placing his trombone case on the chair beside her as he puts on his coat. 

She only gives a quiet, “hey,” in return, not tearing her gaze from its place on the wall ahead of her. 

She can tell that he wants to say something else; she can feel his hesitation when he picks his instrument up again. 

A beat of silence passes.

“Uh, good look on your jury!” He offers lamely, lips pulled back in a sincere, slightly nervous grin. 

And at that, she looks up at him. Her heart trips over itself, stomach fluttering as she gives a weak, tight-lipped, probably not all that convincing smile back, and she tells herself that the nerves are strictly because of the impending doom of performing in a piano jury. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” He smiles easily at her now, throwing a single wave before heading on his way. 

She watches him leave, her heart still racing even as the doors close behind him. 

And for some strange reason, just a touch of that pre-test anxiety goes away. It’s not much, but for a split second, she feels better. 

By some miracle, she passes. 

The judges had been merciful, one of them only asking for the relatively easy E Major and g minor. Her Bach had gone smoothly; not the best it’s ever been, but she couldn’t quite control the way her hands started to shake at the midpoint of the piece. 

But still, even with the minor hiccups, she’s survived. 

And now she gets a month break before the return to practice room hell.

Like all breaks, however, this one goes by entirely too fast. After Christmas, after being roped by her mom into playing a few songs for her family, after New Years hits, everything seems to happen all at once, and that one month break has dwindles down to a measly, stress-inducing last two days of freedom. 

She stays awake the night before, wondering just what her piano professor, Dr. Kreps, had planned for her; what pieces he’d be ready to throw her way. 

Maybe, she thinks, this new spring semester will be better. Before she’d left, during her last lesson, Dr. K had asked if she’d be willing to be a student accompanist, a little something extra to earn nice cash on the side. Sure, it would be more work for her, but hey, money was money. 

And according to Dr. K, accompanying someone, letting someone else lead and having to listen to them for cues and what not were essential skills for a pianist.

Plus, when she’d told her parents about it, they insisted it would be a good way for her to “actually meet some people and make friends.” 

(A little uncalled for, in her humble opinion, but whatever. It’s fine.)

At least she’d be making money. 

She’d have been lying if she said she wasn’t nervous about this whole thing. It’s an insane amount of pressure accompanying someone. One little mistake on either part, someone missing an entrance, someone having even the smallest memory lapse, can ruin the whole performance. Here she is, someone who’s supposed to be a talented enough pianist to make music with a soloist.

And this idea where some music students are, well, to put it kindly— _demanding_ … Well, it doesn’t help.

All in all, it can be the tiniest bit intimidating.

The semester starts with just two students. Easy enough. Both are freshman who were unable to work out schedules with the other staff accompanists. One’s a shy clarinetist, but who seems focused enough. She never forgets her music; always has a pencil on hand. The other’s this cocky vocalist, a baritone that more than likely thinks he’s God’s gift to the music program. 

He also claims to have perfect pitch, but after their first practice together, MJ can safely say that he does not, indeed, have perfect pitch. 

Relative pitch? Maybe.

But not perfect.

Overall, it’s not so bad. It turns out to be a nice escape from her own repertoire, and it provides a good brain exercise to try and go along with what they play or sing; trying to change tempo with them, trying to find the right place in the music to regroup if they get lost. 

It’s also good, because she’s usually guaranteed a free practice room after she’s done working with the other students. So far, no run ins with the same boy from last semester (probably because he hasn’t started working on his music yet, and won’t start until two weeks before again). No races, no stupid smiles.

It’s a great start to the year. 

Then, at about the fourth week in, after everyone’s had their accompanist’s for a fair amount of time, is when she gets the email. 

* * *

**_From: Peter Parker <pbp0862@empirestate.edu> _ **

**_To: Michelle Jones <mj0665@empirestate.edu> _ **

**_Subject: Accompanist_ **

_Hi!_

_My name is Peter Parker, and I recently had to take on voice lessons with Dr. Young as a requirement for my major, and was wondering if you would be able to accompany me this semester? I spoke with Dr. Kreps and he told me that you would be a great choice!_

_I’m free between 11:30 and 1:30 MWF, and 9:30 and 11:30 on TTh._

_I know this is a little late to be asking, but I hope to hear from you soon. :)_

_Thanks,_

_Peter Parker_

* * *

And he’s right. It is a little late to be asking around for an accompanist, but MJ finds that she can’t really, in good conscience, turn him down, last minute as it is. 

So she writes him back. 

* * *

**_From: Michelle Jones <mj0665@empirestate.edu> _ **

**_To: Peter Parker <pbp0862@empirestate.edu> _ **

**_Subject: Re: Accompanist_ **

_Hi, Peter,_

_Sure. Let’s do Wednesday’s at 11:30._

_Meet in practice room 2111._

_\-- MJ_

* * *

Less than a minute later, her phone dings again with a reply from Peter. 

* * *

**_From: Peter Parker <pbp0862@empirestate.edu> _ **

**_To: Michelle Jones <mj0665@empirestate.edu> _ **

**_Subject: Re: Re: Accompanist_ **

_Great!!_

_Thanks so much, Michelle! Looking forward to working with you. :)_

_See you then,_

_Peter Parker_

* * *

She’s not sure how long she’s been staring at this damn email. It’s now 11:37 AM on that next Wednesday, and this Peter guy has yet to show up. The time ticks by, slowly. She practices her own music for a bit before switching to the pdfs of songs he’d sent her. 

It’s when the time hits 11:45 AM that she realizes that he probably forgot about the whole thing in general. 

_What was the rule?_

_After someone hit the fifteen minute mark you could leave?_

Still, perhaps against her better judgement, she waits, staring at the digital clock on her phone, willing this kid to just show up. 

Three sharp, staccato wraps on the glass nearly startle her off of the piano bench. She looks up, to her surprise meeting a pair of big brown eyes—ones that seem just as shocked—through the window.

_Of fucking course._

Brass-boy from last semester—the very same one who stole this room from her countless times—freezes for a moment before slowly opening the door. “Uh, hi.”

“...Hi.”

A long, heavy beat of silence passes.

Does she dare ask? 

She raises a questioning brow at him as he stands dumbly in the doorway. “Peter?” 

She does.

“Oh, uh. Yeah.” He glances around as he cautiously steps into the room. “That’s me.”

Another beat. 

“Thanks for agreeing to, uh, accompany me.”

Michelle’s not sure how to respond. She nods, giving a quiet, “Yup.”

And just like before her jury, she can feel his hesitation, how he has something he wants to say. She looks up at him again, waiting. 

His lips are pulled back in a sheepish smile; he breathes out a nervous chuckle, clearing his throat as he glances between her face and the phone in her hands. 

“Are you using this room?”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!!
> 
> Follow me on tumblr @spiderman-homecomeme or on twitter @smhomecomeme!


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